Masters of Rome Boxset: First Man in Rome, the Grass Crown, Fortune's Favourites, Caesar's Women, Caesar

by Colleen McCullough

“It was the arrows caused most of the casualties,” said Fabius, wiping a trickle of blood from his ear. “It seems Vercingetorix has decided to use archers wherever he can, and they’re a menace. I begin to understand how poor Marcus Crassus must have felt.”

  “I don’t think we have much choice other than to withdraw,” said Caesar grimly. “The problem is, how do we withdraw? We can’t turn and run; they’d fall on us like wolves. No, we’ll have to fight a battle first, frighten Vercingetorix enough to hesitate when we do withdraw.”

  A decision made doubly necessary when Viridomarus returned with the news that the Aedui were in open revolt.

  “They ejected the tribune Marcus Aristius from Cabillonum, then attacked him, took him prisoner and stripped him of all his belongings. He gathered some Roman citizens and retreated into a small stronghold, and there he held out until some of my people changed their minds and came to beg his forgiveness. But many Roman citizens are dead, Caesar, and there will be no food.”

  “My luck is out,” said Caesar, visiting Fabius in the small camp. He shrugged, looked toward the great citadel, and stiffened. “Ah!”

  Fabius looked immediately alert; he knew that “Ah!”

  “I think I’ve just seen a way to force a battle.”

  Fabius followed his gaze and frowned. A forested hill previously thick with Gauls was empty. “Oh, risky!” he said.

  “We’ll trick them,” said Caesar.

  The cavalry were too precious to waste, and there was always the chance that the bulk of it, being Aedui, would decide their skins were at too much risk. A wretched nuisance, but he did have the four hundred Germans, who knew absolutely no fear and loved to do anything dangerous. To reinforce them he took pack mules and dressed their noncombatant handlers in cavalry gear, then sent the force off under instructions to scout, learn what they could, and make a great deal of noise.

  From Gergovia it was possible to see straight into both the Roman camps, but the distance rendered it difficult to see clearly; the watching Gauls saw a great deal of activity, cavalry riding back and forth, legions marching back and forth in battle gear, everything going from the big camp into the little camp.

  But the success of the enterprise, which aimed at storming the citadel itself, depended, as always, on bugle calls. Every kind of maneuver had its special short, specific tune, and the troops were exquisitely trained to obey those calls at once. Yet another difficulty concerned the Aedui, who had been deserting Litaviccus and Vercingetorix in droves, and whom Caesar had no choice other than to use combined with those Aedui loyal to him from the start. They were to form the right wing of the attack. But most of them were wearing true Gallic mail shirts instead of the customary Aeduan mail shirts, which left the right shoulder bare. Dressed for battle and therefore minus their distinctive red-and-blue-striped shawls, without that bare right shoulder they were indistinguishable from Vercingetorix’s men.

  At first it went well, the Eighth in the forefront of the fray. Caesar, fighting with the Tenth, had control of the bugle calls. Three of Vercingetorix’s camps fell, and King Teutomarus of the Nitiobriges, asleep in his tent, was forced to escape bare-chested on a wounded horse.

  “We’ve done enough,” Caesar said to Quintus Cicero. “Bugler, sound the retreat.”

  The Tenth heard the call clearly, turned and retreated in good order. But the one thing no one, including Caesar, had taken into account was the complicated and precipitous terrain; the brassy voice of the bugle, propelled by a carefully chosen pair of lungs, soared up above the sound of battle so loudly that it bounced off every cliff and cranny, echoing on and on and on. The legions further from it than the Tenth didn’t have any idea what the call was signaling. With the result that the Eighth didn’t retreat, nor did the others. And the Gauls who had been fortifying the far side of Gergovia came running in their thousands to hurl the advance guard of the Eighth off the walls.

  What was rapidly turning into a debacle increased its pace when the Aedui, on the right, were thought to be the enemy because of their mail shirts. Legates, tribunes, Caesar himself ran and shouted, hauled soldiers back, turned them round forcibly, hectored and harried. Titus Sextius, in the small camp, brought out the cohorts of the Thirteenth held in reserve, and slowly order came out of chaos. The legions reached camp and left the Gauls in command of the field.

  Forty-six centurions, most of them in the Eighth, were dead, and close to seven hundred ranker soldiers. A toll which had Caesar in tears, especially when he heard that among the dead centurions were Lucius Fabius and Marcus Petronius of the Eighth; both had died making sure their men survived.

  “Good, but not good enough,” said Caesar to the army in assembly. “The ground was unfavorable and all of you knew it. This is Caesar’s army, which means courage and daring are not the sum total of what is expected of you. Oh, it’s wonderful to pay no heed to the height of citadel walls, the difficulty of camp fortifications, hideous mountain terrain. But I don’t send you into battle to lose your lives! I don’t sacrifice my precious soldiers, my even more precious centurions, just to say to the world that my army is composed of heroes! Dead heroes are no use. Dead heroes are burned and honored and forgotten. Valor and verve are laudable, but not everything in a soldier’s life. And never in Caesar’s army. Discipline and self-restraint are as prized in Caesar’s army as any other virtues. My soldiers are required to think. My soldiers are required to keep a cool head no matter how fierce the passion which drives them on. For cool heads and clear thinking win more battles than bravery does. Don’t make me grieve! Don’t give Caesar cause to weep!”

  The ranks were silent; Caesar wept.

  Then he wiped his eyes with one hand, shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault, boys, and I’m not angry at you. Just grieved. I like to see the same faces when I go down the files, I don’t want to have to search for faces no longer there. You’re my boys; I can’t bear to lose any one of you. Better to lose a war than lose one’s men. But we didn’t lose yesterday, and we won’t lose this war. Yesterday we won something. Yesterday Vercingetorix won something. We scattered his camps. He scattered us from the walls of Gergovia. It wasn’t superior Gallic courage forced us back, it was shocking ground and echoes. I always had my doubts about the outcome; it’s not unexpected. It won’t change a thing, except that there are faces missing in my ranks. So when you think about yesterday, blame the echoes. And when you think about tomorrow, remember yesterday’s lesson.”

  From the assembly the legions left the camp to form up in battle array on good ground, but Vercingetorix refused to come down and accept the battle offer. The faithful Germans, shrieking that ululating warcry which sent shivers down every Gallic spine, provoked a cavalry skirmish and took the honors.

  “But he isn’t going to commit himself to an all-out fight, even here on his home patch of Gergovia,” said Caesar. “We’ll parade for battle again tomorrow, though he won’t come down. After that we’ll get out of Gergovia. And to make sure we get out in one piece, the Aedui can bring up our rear.”

  *

  Noviodunum Nevirnum lay on the north bank of the Liger, very close to its confluence with the Elaver; four days after leaving Gergovia, Caesar arrived there to find the bridges across the Liger destroyed and the Aedui in outright revolt. They had entered Noviodunum Nevirnum and burned it to deprive Caesar of food, and when the fires were slow to burn, they emptied the contents of the storehouses and granaries into the river rather than see Caesar save anything. Roman citizens living in Aeduan lands were murdered, Roman sympathizers among the Aedui were murdered.

  At which moment Eporedorix and Viridomarus found Caesar and told their tale of multiple woes.

  “Litaviccus is in control, Cotus is restored to favor, and Convictolavus is doing as he’s told,” said Eporedorix dolefully. “Viridomarus and I have been stripped of our estates and banished. And soon Vercingetorix is going to hold a pan-Gallic conference inside Bibracte. After it, he’ll call a general muster at Carnutum.” />
  Face set, Caesar listened. “Banished or not, I expect you to return to your people,” he said when the tale of woe was ended. “I want you to remind them who I am, what I am, and where I intend to go. If the Aedui attempt to stand in my way, Eporedorix, I will crush the Aedui flatter than an ox can crush a beetle. The Aedui have formal treaties with Rome and the status of Friend and Ally. But if they persist in this present lunacy, they’ll lose everything. Now go home and do as I say.”

  “I don’t understand!” cried Quintus Cicero. “The Aedui have been our allies for almost a hundred years. They were only too happy to assist Ahenobarbus when he conquered the Arverni—they’re so Romanized they speak Latin! So why this change of heart?”

  “Vercingetorix,” said Caesar. “And let us not forget the Druids. Nor let us forget the ambitious Litaviccus.”

  “Let us not forget the Liger River,” said Fabius. “The Aedui haven’t left a bridge standing anywhere; I’ve had the scouts check for miles. Everyone assures me it’s not fordable during spring.” He smiled. “However, I’ve found a spot where we can ford it.”

  “Good man!”

  The last job Caesar required of his Aeduan cavalry was to ride into the river and stand against its current, all thousand horsemen packed to form a buffer between the full force of the current and the legions, who crossed in water well above the waist without trouble.

  “Except,” said Mutilus, a centurion in the Thirteenth, upon the north bank, and shivering, “that there’s not a mentula left among us, Caesar! Dropped off in the ice of that water.”

  “Rubbish, Mutilus!” said Caesar, grinning. “You’re all mentula! Isn’t that right, boys?” he asked the men of Mutilus’s century, blue with cold.

  “That’s right, General!”

  “Hmm!” said Caesar, and rode off.

  “We’re in luck,” said Sextius, riding to meet him. “The Aedui may have burned Noviodunum Nevirnum, but they couldn’t bear to burn their own barns and silos. The countryside is full of food. We’ll eat well for the next few days.”

  “Good, then organize foraging parties. And if you find any Aedui, Titus, kill them.”

  “In front of your cavalry?” asked Sextius blankly.

  “Oh, no. I’m done with the Aedui, and that goes for Aeduan cavalry too. If you come with me, you can watch me fire them.”

  “But you can’t exist without cavalry!”

  “I can exist better without cavalry aiming their lances at my soldiers’ backs! But don’t worry, we’ll have cavalry. I’ve sent to Dorix of the Remi—and I’ve sent to Arminius of the Ubii. From now on, I don’t intend to use Gallic cavalry any more than I have to. I’m going to remount and use Germans.”

  That night in camp he held a war council.

  “With the Aedui in revolt, Vercingetorix must be absolutely convinced he’ll win. In which case, Fabius, what do you think he might assume I’ll do?”

  “He’ll assume that you’re going to retreat out of Gallia Comata into the Province,” said Fabius without hesitation.

  “Yes, I agree.” Caesar shrugged. “After all, it’s the prudent alternative. We’re on the run—or so he believes. We had to retreat with Gergovia untaken. The Aedui can’t be trusted. How can we continue to exist in a totally hostile country? Every hand is turned against us. And we’re perpetually short of food, the most important consideration of all. Without the Aedui to supply us, we can’t continue to exist. Therefore—the Province.”

  “Where,” said a new voice, “there’s strife on all sides.”

  Fabius, Quintus Cicero and Sextus looked, startled, to the gaping tent flap, filled by a body so bulky that the head on its shoulders looked too small.

  “Well, well,” said Caesar genially. “Marcus Antonius at last! When did the trial of Milo finish? Early April? What is it now? The middle of Quinctilis? How did you come, Antonius? By way of Syria?”

  Antony yanked the tent flap closed and threw off his sagum, quite unruffled by this ironic greeting. His perfect little white teeth gleamed in a broad smile; he ran a hand through his curly auburn hair and gazed unapologetically at his second cousin. “No, not by way of Syria,” he said, and began looking about. “I know dinner’s long over, but is there any chance of something to eat?”

  “Why should I feed you, Antonius?”

  “Because I’m full of news but little else.”

  “You can have bread, olives and cheese.”

  “Roast ox would be better, but I’ll settle for bread, olives and cheese.” Antony sat himself down on a vacant stool. “Ho, Fabius, Sextius! How goes it? And Quintus Cicero, no less! You do keep strange company, Caesar.”

  Quintus Cicero bridled, but the insult was accompanied by a winning smile, and the other two legates were grinning.

  The food came, and Antony fell to eating with gusto. He took a swig from the goblet a servant had filled for him, blinked, set it down indignantly. “It’s water!” he said. “I need wine!”

  “I’m sure you do,” said Caesar, “but you won’t get it in any war camp of mine, Antonius. I run a dry operation. And if my senior legates are content with water, my humble quaestor had best be the same. Besides, once you start you can’t stop. The sure sign of an unhealthy addiction to a highly poisonous substance. Campaigning with me will do you good. You’ll be so sober you might actually discover that heads which don’t ache are capable of serious thinking.” Caesar saw Antony’s mouth open to protest, and got in first. “And don’t start prating about Gabinius! He couldn’t control you. I can.”

  Antony shut his mouth, blinked his auburn eyes, looked like Aetna about to erupt, then burst out laughing. “Oh, you haven’t changed since the day you kicked me so hard in the podex that I couldn’t sit down for a week!” he said when he was able. “This man,” he announced to the others, “is the scourge of our whole family. He’s a terror. But when he speaks, even my monumentally silly mother stops howling and screeching.”

  “If you can talk so much, Antonius, I’d prefer to hear some sense,” said Caesar, face straight. “What’s going on in the south?”

  “Well, I’ve been to Narbo to see Uncle Lucius—and no, I didn’t take it upon myself to go, I found a summons in Arelate—who has sent you a letter about four books long.” He reached into a saddlebag on the ground beside him and produced a fat scroll which he handed to Caesar. “I can summarize it for you if you like, Caesar.”

  “I’d be interested to hear your summary, Antonius. Proceed.”

  “The moment spring came, it started. Lucterius sent the Gabali and some of the southern Arverni to the eastern side of the Cebenna to make war on the Helvii. That was the worst of it,” said Antony grimly. “The Helvii were overwhelmed in the open. They’d decided they had the numbers to defeat the Gabali in the field, but what they hadn’t counted on was the Arvernian contingent. They went down badly. Donnotaurus was killed. But Caburus and his younger sons survived and things have gone much better since. The Helvii are now safe inside their towns and holding.”

  “A terrible grief for Caburus, to lose a son,” said Caesar. “Have you any idea what the Allobroges are thinking?”

  “Not of joining Vercingetorix, anyway! I came through their lands and found a lot of activity. Fortifications everywhere, no settlement unguarded. They’re ready for any attack.”

  “And the Volcae Arecomici?”

  “The Ruteni, the Cardurci and some of the Petrocorii have attacked all along the border of the Province between the Vardo and the Tarnis, but Uncle Lucius had armed and organized them very efficiently, so they’ve held out surprisingly well. Some of their more remote settlements have suffered, of course.”

  “And Aquitania?”

  “Very little trouble so far. The Nitiobriges have declared for Vercingetorix—Teutomarus, their king, managed to hire some mercenary horse troopers among the Aquitani. But he deems himself too highborn to serve under a mere mortal like Lucterius, so he took himself off to join Vercingetorix. Aside from that, peace and quiet
reign south of the Garumna.” Antony paused. “All of this is from Uncle Lucius.”

  “Your uncle Lucius will enjoy the end of the haughty King Teutomarus’s odyssey. He had to flee from Gergovia without his shirt and on a wounded horse. Otherwise he’d be walking in my triumphal parade one day,” said Caesar. He inclined his head to Mark Antony, the gesture colored by a peculiar tinge of something his three legates had never seen in him before; suddenly he seemed the highest of kings, and Antony a mere worm at his feet. How extraordinary! “My thanks, Antonius.”

  He turned to look at Fabius, Sextius, Quintus Cicero. The usual Caesar, not a scrap different from a thousand other occasions. Imagination, thought Fabius and Sextius. He’s the king of that whole family, thought Quintus Cicero. No wonder he and my brother Cicero don’t get on. They’re both king of the family.

  “All right, the situation in the Province is stable yet perilous. No doubt Vercingetorix is quite as aware what’s happening as I am at this moment. Yes, he’ll expect me to retreat into the Province. So I suppose I must oblige him.”

  “Caesar!” gasped Fabius, eyes round. “You won’t!”

  “Of course I do have to go to Agedincum first. After all, I can’t leave Trebonius and the baggage behind, let alone the loyal and unflagging Fifteenth. Nor can I leave without the good Titus Labienus and the four legions he has with him.”

  “How’s he doing?” asked Antony.

  “As always, very well. When he couldn’t take Lutetia he moved upstream to the other big island in the Sequana, Metiosedum. It fell at once—they hadn’t burned their boats. After which he returned to Lutetia. The moment he appeared the Parisii put the torch to their island fortress and scampered off to the north.” Caesar frowned, shifted on his ivory curule chair. “It seems the word is being shouted from one end of Gaul to the other that I was defeated at Gergovia and that the Aedui are in revolt.”

  “Eh?” asked Antony, and was quelled with a glance.

  “According to the letter I received late this afternoon from Labienus, he decided this wasn’t the moment to become inextricably embroiled in a long campaign north of the Sequana. Amazing, how well he knows my mind! He knew I’d want my whole army.” A tinge of bitterness crept into Caesar’s voice. “Before he left he felt it politic to teach the Parisii—who were led by one of the Aulerci, the old man Camulogenus—and their new allies that it doesn’t pay to annoy Titus Labienus. The new allies were Commius’s Atrebates and a few Bellovaci. Labienus tricked them. One always can. Most of them are dead, including Camulogenus and the Atrebates. Right at this moment Labienus is marching for Agedincum.” Caesar rose to his feet. “I’m for bed. It’s an early start in the morning—but not toward the Province. Toward Agedincum.”